Chapter 1 #2
so? He couldn’t even chase her. Even if he tried, all she would have to do would
be to toss something in his path and he would trip and fall on his face.
Some people found disfigurement hard to look upon,
but although she’d seen his scars, she’d hardly seemed to notice—she certainly
hadn’t allowed him any leeway because of his injuries. And, in truth, he didn’t
look that bad. The left side of his face had been battered, leaving his eyelid
drooping, his cheekbone slightly depressed, and a bad scar across his jaw on
that side, but the right side of his face had survived with only a few minor
scars; that was why he’d been so sure the Gattings would know him on sight.
The rest of his body was a similar patchwork of
badly scarred areas, and those relatively unscathed, but all that was concealed
by his clothes. His hands had survived well enough, at least after Roland had
finished with them, to pass in all normal circumstances. The only obvious
outward signs of his injuries were his left leg, stiff from the hip down, and
the cane he needed to ensure he kept his balance.
He was trying to see himself through her eyes, and,
admittedly, he was still capable sexually, but, really, how could she possibly
see him as a threat?
He’d reached that point in his fruitless
cogitations when he realized he was the object of someone’s gaze. Glancing to
the right, he saw two children—a boy of about ten and a girl several years
younger—staring at him from around the corner of the house.
As they didn’t duck back when he saw them, he
deduced that they had a right to be there . . . and that they might
well be the reason for his new housekeeper’s caution.
The little girl continued to unabashedly study him,
but the boy’s gaze shifted to Silver.
Even from this distance and angle, Thomas saw the
longing in the boy’s face. “You can pat him if you like. He’s oldish and used to
people. He won’t bite or fuss.”
The boy looked at Thomas; his eyes, his whole face,
lit with pleasure. “Thank you.” He stepped out from the house and walked calmly
toward Silver, who saw him, but, as Thomas had predicted, the horse made no fuss
and allowed the boy to stroke his long neck, which the lad did with all due
reverence.
Thomas watched the pair, for, of course, the girl
trailed after her brother; from their features, Thomas was fairly certain they
were siblings, and related to his new housekeeper. He’d also noticed the clarity
of the boy’s diction, and realized that it, too, matched that of the woman who
had opened the door. Whoever they were, wherever they had come from, it wasn’t
from around here.
“Nor,” Thomas murmured, “from any simple
cottage.”
There could, of course, be many reasons for that.
The role of housekeeper to a gentleman of Mr. Thomas Glendower’s standing would
be an acceptable post for a lady from a gentry family fallen on hard times.
Hearing footsteps approaching on the other side of
the door, rather more slowly this time, Thomas picked up his cane and levered
himself back onto his feet. He turned to the door as the woman opened it. She
held his black notebook in her hand, opened to the front page.
Rose looked out at the man who had told her what
date she would find in the black-leather-covered notebook in her absent
employer’s locked desk drawer—a drawer she knew had not been opened during all
the years she’d been in the house. Hiding her inward sigh, she shut the book and
used it to wave him in as she held the door wide. “Welcome home, Mr.
Glendower.”
His lips twitched, but he merely inclined his head
and didn’t openly gloat. “Perhaps we can commence anew,
Mrs. . . . ?”
Her hand falling, Rose lifted her chin. “Sheridan.
Mrs. Sheridan. I’m a widow.” Looking out to where Homer and Pippin were petting
Glendower’s horse, she added, “My children and I joined the Gattings here four
years ago. I was looking for work, and the Gattings had grown old and needed
help.”
“Indeed. Having added up the years, I now realize
that was likely to have occurred. I haven’t visited here for quite some
time.”
So why had he had to return
now? But Rose knew there was no point railing at Fate; there was
nothing for it but to allow him in, to allow him to reclaim his property—it was
his, after all. She no longer had any doubt of that; quite aside from the date
in the book, she would never have found the hidden compartment in the clock if
he hadn’t told her of it. She’d handled the clock often enough while dusting and
had never had any inkling that it contained a concealed compartment. And the
clock had been there for at least the last four years, so how could he have
known? No, he was Thomas Glendower, just as he claimed, and she couldn’t keep
him out of his own house. And the situation might have been much worse.
Stepping back, she held the door open and waited
while, leaning heavily on his cane, he negotiated the final step into the house.
“Homer—my son—will bring up your bags and stable your horse.”
“Thank you.” Head rising, he halted before her.
She looked into eyes that were a mixture of browns
and greens—and a frisson of awareness slithered down her spine. Her lungs
tightened in reaction. Why, she wasn’t sure. Regardless, she felt perfectly
certain that behind those eyes dwelled a mind that was incisive, observant, and
acutely intelligent.
Not a helpful fact, yet she sensed no threat
emanating from him, not on any level. She’d grown accustomed to trusting her
instincts about men, had learned that those instincts were rarely wrong. And
said instincts were informing her that the advent of her until-now-absent
employer wasn’t the disaster she had at first thought.
Despite the damage done to his face, he appeared
personable enough—indeed, the undamaged side of his face was almost angelic in
its purity of feature. And regardless of his injuries, and the fact he was
clearly restricted in his movements, his strength was still palpable; he might
be a damaged archangel, but he still had power.
Mentally castigating herself for such fanciful
analogies, she released the door, letting it swing half shut. “If you’ll give me
a few minutes, sir, I’ll make up your room. And I expect you’d like some warm
water to wash away the dust.”
Thomas inclined his head. Stepping further inside
as the door swung behind him, he reached for the black notebook she still held.
His fingers brushed hers, and she caught her breath and rapidly released the
book.
So . . . the attraction he’d sensed
moments earlier had been real, and not just on his part?
He felt faintly shocked. He hadn’t expected
. . . straightening, he raised his head, drew in a deeper breath—and
detected the fragile, elusive scent of roses.
The effect that had on him—instantaneous and
intense—was even more shocking.
Abruptly clamping a lid on all such reactions—he
couldn’t afford to frighten her; he needed her to keep house for him, not flee
into the night—he tucked the notebook into his coat pocket and quietly said,
“I’ll be in the library.”
One glance at the stairs was enough to convince him
that he wouldn’t be able to manage them until he’d rested for a while.
“Indeed, sir.” His new housekeeper shut the door
and, in brisk, no-nonsense fashion, informed him, “Dinner will be ready at six
o’clock. As I didn’t know you would be here—”
“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Sheridan.” He started
limping toward the library. “I’ve been living with monks for the last five
years. I’m sure your cooking will be more than up to the mark.”
He didn’t look, but he was prepared to swear she
narrowed her eyes on his back. Ignoring that, and the niggling lure of the
mystery she and her children posed, he opened the library door and went in—to
reclaim the space, and then wait for Fate to find him.
Washed and dressed in fresh clothes,
Thomas made his way down the stairs to the drawing room, reaching it with five
minutes to spare. He amused himself by examining the room; he hadn’t used it
often in the past, but as far as his recollections went, nothing had
changed.
The door opened, and Mrs. Sheridan stood revealed
in the doorway. “If you’ll come through to the dining room, sir, dinner is
waiting.”
He nodded. Leaning heavily on his cane—managing the
stairs had proved a challenge, one he was determined to conquer—he crossed to
the door and, with a wave, gestured for her to precede him. He followed her
across the hall. The lamp there and those in the dining room cast a steady, even
light, illuminating his mysterious housekeeper and allowing him to see her more
clearly than he previously had; as he limped to the head of the table and sat,
from beneath his lashes he watched her go to the sideboard on which serving
platters were arrayed. Her gown was of some dark brown material, of decent
quality, but severely, indeed, repressively cut, with a high collar and long,
tight sleeves. Her hair, thick, lustrous locks of rich walnut-brown, was
restrained in a knot at her nape.
She picked up a soup tureen and turned, and he
fixed his gaze on his plate. He already knew her eyes were a soft mid-brown,
fringed by lush lashes and well set beneath dark, finely arched brows. Her
complexion was fair, cream with a tinge of rose in her cheeks; her features were
delicate, her face heart-shaped, with a gently rounded chin.
He’d already noted her straight, no-nonsense nose
and her full lips of pale rose, but as she leaned across to offer him the
tureen, he saw that, as before, those lips were compressed into a tense
line.
The sight . . . displeased him, which, on
one level, he found curious. He rarely cared about how others were feeling, at
least not spontaneously.
“Thank you.” Availing himself of the ladle, he
served himself.
As he picked up his soup spoon, Mrs. Sheridan
ferried the tureen back to the sideboard, then turned and, clasping her hands